


Misunderstandings

by Scrawlers



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Anime)
Genre: Angst, Gen, episode tag to XYZ032
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-20 23:06:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17031657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scrawlers/pseuds/Scrawlers
Summary: For the first time in three years, Augustine comes face to face with Alan just before the opening ceremony for the Kalos League.





	Misunderstandings

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a while ago, but in light of Tumblr being . . . Tumblr, I've decided to archive everything here, just in case.
> 
> In XYZ032 there’s a small scene where Professor Sycamore approaches Alan at the League, only for Alan to bow and leave without saying a word. We don’t hear what Sycamore actually says to him; we see the scene from a distance, through Ash’s eyes. Since we weren’t given the luxury of experiencing that scene from either Sycamore’s or Alan’s point of view, I decided to quickly write it up. The first half of this is from Sycamore’s point of view, and the second half is that same scene from Alan’s.
> 
> Despite being an episode tag, this fic does still incorporate my headcanons for their history, and I’ve also decided to just go ahead and replace Alan’s unfezant with a much more fitting noctowl, because I want to and I can. (It’s only one line, anyway, so it’s not a very big deal.)

The moment Augustine saw Alan’s name on the entrant’s registry, he made his way toward the patio being used for the opening ceremony.

Augustine was supposed to be there anyway, of course. As the regional professor, he had been asked to assist with the League, and as such he would need to be present when League officially began and the first matches were announced. But the actual opening ceremony wasn’t for another hour yet; the registered trainers were still milling about the stadium and some were still meandering toward the patio, and as far as Augustine knew Diantha hadn’t even arrived at the stadium yet herself. He still had plenty of time before he was expected to make an appearance.

But he had taken a glance at the registry out of curiosity to see if Ash had arrived and registered yet, and when he did, he saw Alan’s name. Of course, Alan being an orphan, he didn’t have a surname to register with; but Augustine remembered Alan’s Trainer ID number, and even if he hadn’t, one look at Alan’s registered team confirmed it. Lizardon was the only pokémon Augustine knew personally, but the others—metagross, tyranitar, weavile, bisharp, and noctowl—felt like choices Alan would have made for his team. They felt right.

With that in mind, he made his way to the patio. Though the opening ceremony wasn’t for another hour, the patio was already crowded with trainers. Augustine scanned the tables, and though the sight of a few familiar faces and excited trainers made him smile faintly, he couldn’t help the way his heart was flitting like an agitated bird in his chest all the same. It had been three years since he had seen Alan in person, and two since he had seen or spoken to him at all. That, Augustine knew, was because of Lysandre; Steven Stone had told him about Alan’s employment, and though Lysandre had seemed cordial enough when they had spoken at Fleur-De-Lis Laboratories, the way he had kept deflecting the conversation away from Alan just long enough for Alan to have conveniently  _left_ before Augustine had a chance to speak with him told Augustine all that he needed to know. But Lysandre wasn’t here now; this was Augustine’s chance to see and speak with Alan, if only he could find—

Augustine’s heart went still in his chest, recognizing what it was that he saw a second before his mind caught up. When his mind did decide to get with the program, Augustine still smiled a little; the sight was as familiar as it was a little sad.

Rather than pick a table with any of the other trainers that had registered with the League, Alan had chosen to stand by himself at the far end of the patio, looking off at the trees. From a distance, he looked much as he had on the international news report that night; he was still wearing his dark traveling clothes, his hair was a disarray, and the scarf that Augustine had sent him for his thirteenth birthday was still tossed around his neck. But he was isolated, and that, Augustine thought, was . . . not quite surprising, but not quite right, either. Alan had always been reserved—shy, even, ever since he was a child. He had learned to open up more as he had grown older—he was at least able to talk to strangers now, particularly if spoken to first—but he was still far from a social butterfly. Alan would never be extroverted, and that was fine as far as Augustine was concerned; Alan was wonderful just the way he was. All the same, there was something lonely about the sight of him standing by himself, looking away from everyone else, not showing even a shred of the energy or excitement that buzzed around him. There was something not quite right about it. And while there were many things that Augustine wanted— _needed_ —to talk to Alan about, he thought that they would have to do something about Alan’s apparent lack of enthusiasm first. He made his way toward Alan, weaving around the tables and gathered trainers without bumping into anyone as best he could, and when he was near enough so that he had to raise his voice a little bit didn’t quite have to shout, he called, “Alan!”

Alan stiffened the moment he heard Augustine’s voice, but then he turned—and when he did, and their eyes met, Alan’s eyes widened and his mouth dropped open. He stood frozen, and in a way that was good; at the very least, it gave Augustine time to catch up to him. But his expression, one that immediately brought the phrase  _deerling in the headlights_ to the forefront of Augustine’s mind, didn’t fade even as Augustine reached him.

“It’s been a while,” Augustine said, and he held out his hand. Alan’s eyes darted to it before he looked back up, but he made no move to take it. “It’s good to see you again.”

Alan continued to stare at him for a second more before he closed his eyes, and the Adam’s apple in his throat bobbed as he swallowed. Augustine faltered. He had chosen to open with a handshake because they were in public, and being hugged in greeting by the regional professor was something that would surely draw additional attention Alan’s way. But up close like this, Augustine could see the dark circles beneath Alan’s eyes, could see his fists trembling by his sides, and that made him think that perhaps a handshake was the wrong way to go after all. Other trainers or no other trainers, maybe he  _should_ have gone straight for the hug. And it wasn’t too late, he still could—

But he couldn’t. Before Augustine had a chance to act on his thought or even say another word, Alan bowed (courteous and polite, but unnecessary between them) and turned away. Augustine could only stare after him as he walked off, and as Alan put his hands in the pockets of his jacket, Augustine lowered his own back to his side.

To say that reaction was not what he had expected was an understatement—but to say that it wasn’t what he had  _hoped_  for was even more of one. In truth, Augustine didn’t know what he  _had_ expected; he knew thanks to Steven Stone that Alan had been through a lot in recent times, and could tell well enough thanks to Alan’s radio silence that “recent times” was underselling it, and that “the past two years” was more accurate. But even with the information he had, Augustine still couldn’t understand what, exactly, had just happened. The isolation, the stress—that Augustine understood, that made sense. But Augustine had taken care of Alan since he was five years old; he had seen Alan at his most withdrawn and vulnerable, and knew him well enough to get a good read on what he was feeling based on body language and facial expression alone. Alan’s difficulty in meeting his eyes and utter silence spoke volumes to Augustine, but it was what they told him about what Alan was feeling that he didn’t comprehend.

Alan didn’t just look startled when he saw Augustine. He looked  _afraid_. And despite all that Steven Stone had told him, Augustine could not for the life of him understand why.

**-**

_I shouldn’t be here._

That thought—that  _feeling_  was a persistent current running beneath Alan’s skin and nagging him like a constant buzz from the moment he set foot in Lumiose City. There was nothing wrong with the city itself; on the contrary, the streets were as open as they had ever been in his childhood, the sky a bright, vivid blue above the rooftops and the air thick with the same contradictory aroma of freshly baked goods from the local bakeries mixed with exhaust fumes from the taxis. The same streets, most of the same businesses (and a few new ones), the same gogoat trotting along and casting annoyed looks at the furfrou pups that pranced past them . . .

Lumiose City was the same as it ever was. It was his hometown—the only one that mattered, anyway—and it was  _wrong_ for him to be there.

It was wrong for him to be there as he entered the stadium and approached the registration desk to sign up for the League. It was wrong for him to be there as he wove through the crowds to make it to the patio where the first match-ups would be announced, and entrants could partake in complimentary buffet platters set out on neatly decorated tables. It was wrong for him to be there as the trainers around him laughed and chatted among themselves, carefree and eager for the battles to start. It was wrong for him to be there as he spotted Malva across the way, a camera crew flanking her, and a smirk dancing on her lips as their eyes met. Alan swallowed (his throat was  _so dry_ ) and tore his eyes from her to look at the trees lining the patio instead.

It was wrong for him to be there. This—all of it—was wrong. He was never given an assignment in Lumiose. There was no guarantee he could collect mega evolution energy this way. He had a job to do, and by entering the League—by battling Ash, no matter how much he wanted to—he wasn’t doing it. Worse still, by returning to Lumiose City, that put him in close proximity with the Professor. He had made it a point to avoid the lab when he returned—had taken a detour to avoid passing it on his way to the stadium—but the Professor was still in the city, and if they ran into each other . . . if the Professor was put into danger because Alan had returned, because Alan had selfishly decided to enter the League, then—

“Alan!”

No. There was no way. There was no way his luck was that bad. There was no way he had  _jinxed_ himself, no way that was  _possible_ —

But as Alan turned, it was to see Professor Sycamore striding toward him. The Professor was smiling; his smile was as gentle and warm as it had always been when Alan was a child, and the moment he saw it Alan was slammed so powerfully by the reality of just how badly he had missed the Professor that it left him feeling a little breathless. He curled his fingers into fists, fighting for some restraint, because this was wrong, it was  _wrong_ , he shouldn’t—he  _couldn’t_ do this, the Professor could be in danger, and nothing—not a talk, not even a  _hug_ —was worth that.

“It’s been a while,” the Professor said, and he held out his hand as he finally came within handshake distance. Alan glanced at it, and then looked back up. The Professor’s smile didn’t fade, and Alan could feel his hands shaking. “It’s good to see you again.”

Alan swallowed, and closed his eyes.

_‘If he publishes that information, there will be people who want to use it for bad purposes. One look at human history and you’ll see it’s inevitable. . . . The professor needs to be protected!’_

Protect the Professor. That was what he had to do. Failure was not an option. With his breath caught in his lungs and anything he could possibly say glued to his throat, he bowed once (for  _thank you_ , and  _I’m sorry,_ and  _please excuse me_ , and  _goodbye_ ) and turned away, exiting the patio area on the nearest path to put as much distance between himself and the Professor as possible. He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets to hide their shaking, and as he walked away, part of him wanted the Professor to follow. That part of him, Alan knew, was selfish and stupid and would be entirely at fault if anything bad happened to the Professor now.

It would be entirely his fault.


End file.
